Smoke and Embers
by orangeflavor
Summary: "'I want the Arishok's blood on my blades.' She swallows and pulls a deep breath through her nose, soot-filled and heavy with rage." The night is long and bloody when Kirkwall burns and Hawke finds something she hadn't before.


Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: Soooooo, my computer crashed about two months ago and I lost a lot of stuff. :( I had been working on this piece for a bit and then literally had to rewrite everything! A little peeved about that. That's also why I haven't posted anything for a while, if any of you are readers of my Mass Effect story. I'm in the process of rewriting chapters for that one two. So sit tight, it'll be out shortly. Anyway, thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoy my Rogue Hawke piece here. A bit of introspection and character exploration in the expanse of one very long, very important night. Also, wasn't entirely too sure of the rating but I figured M to be safe. Needless to say, violence will ensue. Enjoy. And please tell me what you think.

Smoke and Embers

"'_I want the Arishok's blood on my blades.' She swallows and pulls a deep breath through her nose, soot-filled and heavy with rage." The night is long and bloody when Kirkwall burns and Hawke finds something she hadn't before._

There is ash and panic tainting the night sky. The Arishok's cry to arms is still vibrating through her bones, the thunderous boom of his voice lighting the air around her.

She is running.

"Go, Hawke! Run!" Aveline's cry urges her on. The Captain is sprinting beside her, her sword tight in her hand, breathes stunted and sharp from her run. An arrow sails past her, dangerously close to her cheek. She grunts in surprise, or annoyance. Hawke can't really tell and it makes her want to laugh.

They do not stop until the docks are small in the distance and the dank, musty smell of Lowtown invades their nostrils. It is tinged with burning wood and terror.

Hawke stumbles to a stop and grasps her knees, bending over to catch her breath. The long braid of her dark hair slides over her shoulder. Her chest heaves from the run, the air taught and burning in her lungs. Her legs are shaking. She swallows and glances up at Aveline, who is wiping a hand across her brow, wet with sweat.

Hawke turns her gaze to the long winding stairs behind them when she hears the thumping of boots along the wood and stone. Her hand moves to the dagger along her back instinctively, and there is a flutter of assurance when she has the cool metal steady in her hand.

"Hawke! Hawke, where in the hell are you?"

Varric's voice eases her hold on her weapon. When she spots the top of his head coming up from the stairs, she moves toward him, a hand outstretched to help the four people limping up the stairs as Varric guards their escape. They are frantic and shaking when they thank her, and soon they are running through the smoke and to their families. Varric turns his steady aim of Bianca from the stairs, cautious of any following Qunari, to look at Hawke and Aveline breathing hard beside him. His smirk tells of blood and worry. "And you said you don't do diplomacy."

Hawke shrugs her shoulders, glancing back at the growing flames in the distance, slowly creeping closer through Lowtown alleys. "I talk better with steel."

Aveline snorts. "It didn't matter what we said. Going to the Arishok about returning the elves was exactly what he planned on. Probably been just _waiting_ for such an opportunity."

Varric balances Bianca over his shoulder. "Let me guess. He said he'd sleep on it."

Aveline raises a brow in his direction and can't seem to decide whether the humor is welcomed or not.

Hawke's voice is low and even. "He made his decision. It was the wrong one."

Aveline turns to Hawke and rests a hand along her shoulder. "Hawke?"

The rogue levels her gaze on the other woman. "This will not be another Lothering."

She only nods in return, the sentiment strong and needful and shared between them.

"Alright then, ladies, game plan?" Varric eyes the two of them expectantly.

Aveline sheaths her sword and looks out to the winding path leading up to Hightown and then eventually, to the Viscount's Keep. "I need to rally the Guardsmen. Focus on evacuation. I could use your help in quelling the Qunari advance. Buy me some time to get these people out of here."

Hawke nods and reaches a hand out to grasp the captain's. "You got it."

They clasp arms momentarily, Aveline sharing one last grateful look with the two of them before she disappears down the stone streets.

Hawke hears screaming somewhere in the distance. She looks down to Varric. "We'll need another heavy hitter."

Varric smiles. "The elf it is then. He was at the Hanged Man this afternoon. Probably caught the fight there. What about a healer?"

Hawke frowns a moment and then moves to the path ahead. "We don't have time. We can't get in front of the Qunari troops if we swing by Darktown first. Anders will have to make his way up here himself or, hopefully, he can help the people down there instead. Get some out before the ax comes down." She is moving swiftly through the alleys, her shadow slinking in shifts between firelight and darkness.

Varric follows close behind her. "Then what about Daisy?"

Hawke is silent as she moves.

Sighing, Varric adjusts Bianca in his grip and grumbles lowly to Hawke."Look, I know you've never been too keen on magic but we could sure use some in our corner right about now. And Daisy's place ain't far."

The sharp, splitting wail of some woman is cut short close ahead. Hawke thinks she can smell the blood on the wind. Her hand goes up to halt Varric's advance as much as his words. Hugging the stone wall of the shop lining the alley, they stop on a slight incline just before the path breaks into one of Lowtown's squares. Just past the square are the stairs down into the elven alienage. She can hear the clashing of swords and bellowing war cries. She curses when Qunlat commands reach her ears. Hawke sighs in resignation and turns to Varric behind her, pushing her thick braid over her shoulder. "We need to clear the square to move forward."

"How many?"

"I hear four. I can't look without being seen." She pauses, her frown deepening as she strains her ears to the slowing silence. "I don't think any of ours are left. But if they're pushing ahead to the Keep then this is an advance party and they'll hold this square until the next wave arrives. We need to take them out." She looks around and catches sight of an awning lining the building along the square. Wooden fixtures and stalls crowd the street below it, flooding into the alley and along the wall they are braced against. She turns back to Varric. "I can climb those to get to the awning and the roof, cut them off on the other side of the square. I need you to draw their attention with one of your arrow flurries once I'm there. Get their backs to me."

Varric frowns and grabs her arm before she can move to the other wall. "Hawke, fire's spreading." He nods down the alley at the rushing flames, a slow orange blossoming against the dark night sky. "That wood won't hold for long."

"Then I'll be quick." She slips from his grasp with an ease and grace that still eludes him. Her form is lost in shadow and there is only the slight creaking of wood to alert him to her climb. She makes her way across the side of the building above the alley, slinking through filth and darkness to perch atop the worn awning. Varric does not need to see her nod to be attuned to her movements. He has known her stealth and her quickness. Known her blades in the dark as well as light. Known when to move and how to breathe and where to strike without breaking her fluid dance of blood and dagger. He has known her well enough and long enough to recognize when to break from the alley and pull Bianca's release tight, watching the storm of arrows hail the far side of the square where the Qunari stood guarding the path for their oncoming troops. Several arrows land in limbs, one Qunari howling in pain as on arrow lodges in his shoulder. They swing their attention to Varric and rush.

Hawke is leaping from the building's low roof in the whisper of a second. Her blades come down swift and slick, sinking into the sides of one Qunari's neck where it meets the shoulders. He is dead before he hits the ground. The remaining soldiers roar in fury, only momentarily stunned by the double-sided attack. Hawke rushes toward the closest Qunari. He raises his sword, heavy and bloody, and Hawke slides to the ground, gliding over the ash covered street on her back through the beast's legs, her twin blades slashing quickly along his thighs. He drops down in a bellow of pain and Hawke is on her feet behind him in moments. She reaches around swiftly and pulls the edge of her blade across his throat. Blood sprays the street and her dagger is gleaming in vicious red.

Across the square, the wounded Qunari pulls the arrow from his shoulder and throws it to the ground in a rage. Varric advances, Bianca trained on his enemy. The Qunari roars in an oncoming rush to the dwarf and is jerked back by a second arrow in his wounded shoulder. Before the warrior can balance himself, Varric sends a bolt into his calf and the Qunari flails momentarily as he tips back and loses his footing, landing heavily in the dirt. Varric reaches the downed beast just as he blinks away the adrenaline and looks up. Varric stands above him, Bianca leveled between his eyes. The heavy _thunk_ of Bianca's releasing strings is the only sound.

Hawke flips back to avoid the incoming spear from the last Qunari, her hands, still gripping her blades, landing on the ground behind her and pushing off to flip herself back into standing. The Qunari reaches for another thick spear and she rolls toward him. Her dagger is quick and slicing his knee before he can throw another spear. Shouting angrily, he drops to one knee, the spear tip landing in the dirt as he holds himself up. Hawke does not give him a moment's reprieve. She slides her blades swiftly into the holder along her back as she places a foot atop his bent knee, pushing herself up and over his shoulder, her hands grasping his head and twisting until she hears the sick crack of bone.

Hawke and Varric stand breathing heavily in the death-filled square. There are bloodied human bodies lining the dirt around them.

Hawke looks back the way they came and sees the flames already engulfing the wooden stalls and ledges she had climbed only minutes ago. The air is thick with soot and ash. She can taste the burning tang, scrunches her nose to the sharp, metallic stench around them.

"Hurry." She does not look back to see if Varric follows.

It is only after six more Qunari opponents and a cowering, wailing band of elves that she and Varric reach the square of the alienage.

There is so much screaming. Hawke feels the familiar tingling of magic in the back of her skull. The air is thick and smoke-filled but not blinding. A flash of green catches her eye and she whips toward the source. Merrill swings her staff toward a Qunari soldier, rough roots shooting from the ground to trap his legs and halt his charge. She jerks her hands back and clenches a fist, energy dark and swirling around it. The Qunari screams and thrashes in its earthen hold, shuddering in violent spasms and Hawke does not have to see to imagine the twisting of his organs through Merrill's magic. He coughs harshly, spraying a cloud of blood into the air once before he stills, dropping limp to the floor as the spelled roots recede.

Merrill hunches over her staff, her breathes heaving and deep as she looks toward Hawke and Varric through the haze of smoke and embers. There is blood trickling from a gash in her arm and the slow blooming purple of a bruise at her temple. Her smile is small and hesitant.

They rush to her side, passing and running into fleeing elves. Hawke can see at least five Qunari bodies littering the square. She pushes a few errant ebony curls behind her ear, her forehead slick with sweat from the flames.

"Hawke, Varric. You're here. Ma serannas." Merrill pulls in a deep breath and raises herself to a straight stance.

Varric glances over her wounds and then to the bodies around the square. "Daisy, what are you still doing here?"

Merrill looks around and motions for them to keep moving. Several elven homes burn and Hawke cannot tell the smell of rotting, burning wood from blood now. It all mixes together into some smarting, chalky sting that tastes like copper on her tongue.

The three of them move quickly through the streets of the burning alienage, stumbling over elf and Qunari alike. The streets run red all the same.

"I tried to give some elvhen a chance to run. Tried to hold off as many Qunari as I could." Her eyes are wet and blinking fiercely as they move through the streets to the Hanged Man and Hightown. "Didn't think there'd be much cry for the Guardsmen to protect the alienage." Her eyes look to Hawke momentarily and she sniffs quickly, rubbing a hand across her dirt-smeared cheek. "Figured we'd be on our own until I saw you two."

Varric smiles reassuringly to Merrill. "Come on, you didn't think you could lose us that easily did you?"

Merrill is silent for a few moments as they make their way through the burning alleys of Lowtown. And then, "I miss Isabela."

Hawke glances at Merrill, and for a moment, shares the elf's sentiment. But then her eyes are back on the corpse-littered streets. Her voice is harder than she intends, but she thinks maybe it is best. "Isaebla is gone. We are left."

Merrill nods silently.

Hawke sighs as she continues moving. "Now, more than ever, we will need each other."

Merrill wants to believe her. Wants to believe that she is needed. Wanted even. Merrill's eyes are soft and yearning on Hawke. And she knows the rogue will never look at her like the others. She looks to her hands and sees the lines of blood running along her palms. She cannot have both. She cannot have Hawke _and_ this magic. Not fully. Not lastingly. It is not something she bears easily.

Hawke swallows lightly and glances at Merrill beside her. Her face is bloody and dirt-streaked. It looks like she feels. But there is something more. There is something darker and gripping just brimming beneath the elf's surface. Hawke has always wondered what it felt like, always wondered what the magic and the Fade and the needing felt like. But she has never wanted it. Never wanted it for her sister. Never wanted it in those she cared for. It is hard to look at Merrill some days and reconcile the girl with the magic. There is something resentful even in what she feels. And there are days she hates herself for it.

"The Hanged Man's not far." Varric's voice is a welcomed reprieve for both women's thoughts.

Kirkwall burns around them and Hawke cannot decide whether she is relieved or enraged. There is ash in the air that tastes like regret. And she doesn't know what she is fighting so adamantly for anymore.

"Hawke!"

Varric's shout comes seconds before a Qunari's blade swipes through the air at her head. She moves on instinct, her body knowing better than her mind how to flow and weave and recognize danger on the wind. She ducks low, rolling away from the Qunari. Bracing herself in the dirt, she sweeps back to slice the back of his legs with an unsheathed dagger. At the same time, Varric's arrow sails through one of his eye sockets.

Merrill whips her staff forward and sends a breath of enchantment sailing past Hawke, where a second Qunari is running toward her crouched form. The wave of energy slams into the warrior and Hawke whips her head back to watch him scream and reach for his head, grasping in frantic and desperate movements to still the images in his mind. He stumbles back and screams.

Hawke moves to stand and watches in mild disgust and pity as the Qunari tries to tear its own eyes out. His scream is sharp and wrenching in the air. Hawke swallows and moves to the beast. Her dagger is swift and merciful across his throat. The Horror spell is ended as he drops to his knees, a barely-there, thankful smile that Hawke swears she sees before he is face-first on the ground and bleeding into the dirt at her feet. She has never liked Entropy. She has never liked the smell of death and sounds of terror that accompany such spells. But there is something familiar about the taint of such magic in the air. It reminds her of Bethany. Her sister had always been gifted in Entropy. Hawke thinks it's more a curse. There is something dark and corrupted about her sister's brand of magic. About Merrill's brand of magic. Hawke doesn't think you can live so close to death and not die a little more each day yourself. She wonders if it is strength or weakness that makes them carry it. And she doesn't understand how they live with that in their hearts, how they go to sleep at nights, how they don't feel heavy or enslaved or stained with every spell they use. She doesn't know how they aren't living in ruin because of it.

Hawke swallows thickly and pulls in a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment and tries remembering gratitude. Tries reminding herself that she has lived time and again because of those spells. Hawke turns to look at Merrill silently, a short nod of mixed thanks and recognition between them. Hawke's eyes are soft for only a moment and then they are turned toward the path ahead. Merrill finds herself wishing for more. More than a moment. Merrill wishes for Hawke to look at her without that tinge of wariness, without that disconnect. But she knows what has already been. She knows what will never be. And she knows that Hawke can never truly see her.

So she takes her nod of thanks, holds her staff stiffly in her hands, and moves to follow the rogue. She doesn't know how else to be with her but in following.

Varric sighs and moves a boot to roll over one of the Qunari bodies. He leans down and grabs the pouch of sovereigns along its belt. They are moving again quickly and with renewed purpose now. The edge of the tavern looms ahead and there are fresh screams carrying along the wind.

Hawke steels herself and breaks into a run toward the sounds. She rounds the corner and the bright flash of lyrium is suddenly before her eyes. Winding, jagged lines. White and gleaming against olive flesh. Dark blooms of blood splashed across magic-slicked skin.

Hawke wonders how Fenris can always make death look beautiful, graceful, almost dream-like. Each swing of his sword is with deadly purpose. Accurate. Steady. To the bone. There is no lingering of life. No slow passing. There is simply breath, and then none, and then bodies, heavy and empty and faceless. There is no pleasure in the kill. No satisfaction in lasting pain. Fenris slings death and mercy in equal blows. His hands are stained with worse.

"Fenris!" Merrill's cry reaches the warrior's ears and he quickly parries the incoming swing of the nearest Qunari. He feels the slight tingle and rush of Merrill's magic as she sends a Shackling Hex past him and into the three Qunari charging toward him across the square, confusing them and halting their rush. A hail of arrows soon follows. Fenris grinds his teeth, bracing his feet in the dirt and then pushes the heavy Qunari from him, roaring. The Qunari stumbles back and Fenris twists his wrists, slicing upwards with his blade, splitting his enemy's chest all the way to his chin. He falls dead, bloody and silent. Fenris turns to the other Qunari only to find Hawke quickly and nimbly dispatching them.

The four companions stand ragged and breathing heavily in the square, looking between each other. Flames dance bright around them. Bar patrons lie dead around the square, having rushed from the slaughtering Qunari in a drunken panic. There are far less Qunari bodies lining the alleys. Hawke must force the thought from her mind. Her gaze lands on Fenris and he is already watching her.

"Are you alright?" His words are breathless from the recent fight. He stands straight-backed and muscles trembling. He grips the hilt of his broadsword tightly, his fingers slick with blood and sweat. His eyes are only for Hawke.

She nods silently, a single steady breath pulled into her lungs. There is the flicker of relief in her dark eyes, her shoulders easing slightly beneath a tension she hadn't known was in her bones. Hawke sheaths her blood-spattered daggers inside her back holster. There is no point in wiping them, no point in cleaning when she imagines they aren't through the dirt yet. Hawke moves to Fenris while Merrill checks bodies for life signs and Varric checks them for loot.

She catches sight of his bloodied shoulder, and a thin but long stretch of wound lining his thigh. She stops just before him, gauging his stance and expression. "Can you fight?"

Fenris smirks, and there is something warm and relieving about the sight. "There is nothing I do better." He motions to an empty vial along the ground and pulls in a deep breath. "I took some elfroot when there was a lull in the wave. The pain is dull and unimportant. My sword is still ready, and still yours."

There is a moment of shared and silent thrilling between them. Hawke's eyes are dark and steady on his. There is something of carnage and grief to them.

Hawke glances around the destroyed entrance of the tavern and then back to Fenris. "Survivors?"

He hangs his head slightly. "Few. I got out who I could. Held the wave of Qunari here for Aveline and some Guardsmen to evacuate some of the west quarter."

"Good."

Fenris cocks a brow in Hawke's direction. "So what did you say to the Arishok that could have angered him so?"

Hawke smacks his wounded shoulder and revels in his resulting wince. "This is hardly my fault."

"Most trouble we encounter is not, and yet…"

Hawke shoots a glare at the elf.

Smirking, Fenris sheaths his sword and moves to the others, who had finished checking bodies around the square. "Aveline is attempting to clear the west and north quarters. Qunari forces have already bled the south and are currently marching toward Hightown, to the Viscount's Keep it seems. We need to make our way through to Hightown's east side if we want to have any hopes of suppressing them."

Merrill nods and Varric turns to Fenris. "Haven't seen Blondie at all have you?"

Fenris' jaw is tight, but his eyes are soft and honest on the dwarf's. "No. I assume he is lending aid in Darktown."

Hawke nods and looks toward the east-winding alley from the Hanged Man. "Hightown it is then. Through here."

She is moving before the others have a moment to speak. They follow her regardless. The group heads away from the burning tavern and down into winding alleys that reek of stale piss and fresh blood. They pass more than one Guardsman's dead form, and several elf and human corpses. Hawke blinks through the embers on the wind and feels the ash fill her lungs. This city feels like rot and tastes like disappointment. Something in the screams and panic filling the streets brings Lothering back in vibrant, painful flashes. But there is a disconnect. A sense of detachment she feels when she passes dead Kirkwallers in the streets. It is not the same sharp pang she felt for Lothering. There isn't the ache of burning memories or the salt sting of tears against her lids. There is no heavy grief or weighing fear. There is mostly anger. And defiance. And a vehemence that breeds from her refusal to run once more. She doesn't think she'll ever feel for this city the way she felt for Lothering. And she doesn't need to. She needs only to know stillness. Sure ground under her feet. Rest.

Hawke is tired of fleeing. Tired of slinking through shadows and eluding people, connection, feeling. Tired of watching and not _being_. Tired of unbelonging. She won't run again. Nothing will ever force her into movement, into action, without her own wanting of it. Nothing will ever force her hand again. She will be her own master. She puts one foot in front of the other and feels the control and certainty and power that comes with her resolution. She will not be the one running from Kirkwall tonight. No. It will be the Qunari.

Hawke moves sure and purposefully through the streets. She hears the clashing of arms in the square ahead, where she knows several homes lie vulnerable to the invading Qunari. The smell of burning magic is on the air. Hawke stills in her advance on the square. She knows that scent. Varric and Merrill are already running toward the battle. Fenris halts by her side for only a moment, only to lock eyes with her in a whisper of a question, before he is turning to the battle as well, turning toward the sound of screams and curses on the wind. Hawke steels herself and moves as well.

She sees the flashes of blue and silver of Grey Warden garb. The swift and efficient sword arcs through the air. Slashed and collapsing Qunari bodies. And Bethany. The ruthless and steady swing of her staff, dark swirls of magic blasting from the wood's tip to lash forcefully into a nearby Qunari. She slams her staff into the ground and a wave of flame sweeps from her feet and swallows the thrashing beast. He is flailing for only seconds, and then charred and still and eyes set permanently in a fearful rage.

The battle is over in minutes. Hawke and her companions stand breathing heavily in the courtyard watching the Grey Wardens. They eye each other warily. Bethany looks at Hawke with a sad nostalgia she does not recognize. The mage's eyes are ancient and grief-filled in ways Hawke cannot understand. Bethany sighs, and there is regretful longing lacing her voice when she breathes her sister's name.

Hawke blinks, and something sharp pulls at her chest. There is nothing else but her sister then. Beside her she hears the voices of her companions mixing with the Wardens, strategy and enemy numbers and healing herbs traded between them. But the sounds are distant to Hawke. She swallows thickly and steps toward her silent sister.

"Bethany." Her name is a sigh, and a wish, and a comfort. She reaches for Bethany's arm and grasps awkwardly and tenderly for her wrist. The mage is coldly still and watching her. "I hadn't thought… hadn't thought to ever see you again."

Bethany's eyes soften minutely and she moves her hand to link fingers with Hawke. "Probably for the best."

Hawke cocks her head in question.

The mage pulls a deep breath in and pulls her fingers from Hawke's, her eyes shifting elsewhere. The air is suddenly colder, the world a shade darker. She had been without her sister for so long. And now, to be with her and yet not together at all, something tells Hawke that it will never be the same between them. She looks into her sister's vacant stare toward her companions and sees a darkness and taint she never wished for her. She licks her lips cautiously, shaking her head. "Why won't you look at me?"

Bethany is calm and distant when she looks back to Hawke. "What do you want me to say? 'Thank you'?"

Hawke opens her mouth to speak but words still in her throat and lay there dying, useless, unknowing.

Her sister moves to lean her weight on her other foot, her hand holding her staff tightly. She cannot recognize this woman anymore. "You'll never know. Never know the fate you've doomed me to." The words are soft and Hawke can find no accusation in them, but they hurt all the same.

She blinks wildly, moving to step closer to the other woman. She curls her hands into fists and wonders why the anger is so easy and quick. "I did what I had to, to save you." She shakes her head, her throat tight and scraping. She makes no apologies. "I had to make a choice."

Bethany is unmoved. "It wasn't your choice to make."

Hawke stops.

"I was ready, Kadis. I was ready to die. You took that from me. And I know you acted out of love, but there was also fear and selfishness in there too." There is something detached about Bethany's voice, something far-off and inscrutable, some sure and absolute knowledge that Hawke will never know. Bethany's eyes soften and she moves a hand to graze her sister's cheek.

Hawke looks away. She cannot understand this swell of anger and guilt and righteousness burning in her chest. This need and fury all at once. She thinks of a sister with scraped knees and knotted hair and eyes that look to her like she is everything worth loving. The image makes her ache in ways she hadn't thought possible. Hawke thinks she may have lost her sister after all, down in the dark and hollow Deep Roads those many years ago. The feel of her palm against her cheek burns her with shame.

Bethany lowers her hand and turns at the call of her name. Her Grey Warden commander motions for them to move out. Bethany turns back one last time to watch Hawke. It is a face Hawke does not remember. "I will always love you, Kadis. But I am not your sister anymore."

Hawke wants to sink her daggers into something. She will not shed the hot tears burning in the corners of her eyes. She will not turn her gaze from Bethany.

Bethany sighs, and there is weariness and emptiness and need to the slump of her shoulders. There is regret in her bones. And she will never be rid of it. "We each have our paths. We cannot go back." Bethany's eyes are heavy and meaningful on Hawke's.

She thinks she sees the glint of the old Bethany. There is only a moment of shared silence and then her sister is turned and walking away.

Hawke watches her back with a slow-blooming ache. There is fury and resentment and guilt and remorse that she can never put to words. A throb of loss she hasn't felt since her mother's murder. She grinds her teeth and pulls her fists tight to her sides. Her knuckles grow white with the force of her longing. But she has only a moment before Varric is calling her name and she must swallow down that sharp slice of pain, wipe a hand across her eyes and look to her companions.

They stand in wait for her.

A thought occurs to her and she is suddenly moving to a nearby alley without thought to whether they are following or not. Flames whip past her as she runs.

"Hawke! Hawke, what are you doing?" Fenris's voice is colored with alarm.

Hawke's breath is loud in her ears and her feet pound the dirt with a determination that feels needful and right in her bones. She will not lose one more. She makes her way up the stairs to Gamlen's and her fist is suddenly pounding at his door, her cries harsh and shaking. "Gamlen! Oh Maker, Gamlen. Answer me dammit!" The locked handle shakes under her grip. She doesn't even know why she fears for the bastard so. But she will not lose one more.

She hears the thudding of her companions' feet along the stone stairs behind her. She has her dagger drawn instantly, and then she is shoving it into the worn and old lock of his door, twisting until she feels the mechanism crack beneath her force. She pulls the blade free and kicks the door in.

"Gamlen!"

The home is empty. And Hawke cannot tell if it is fear or relief that washes over her. She can't even tell what she wants anymore. Can't even tell what she is so desperate for, what this throbbing need is inside her.

"Hawke." Fenris has a hand to her shoulder, turning her to him steadily as she breathes deeply in the center of the empty room. Screams are still sharp and flames still merciless in the alleys below. But his touch is certain and his eyes hard on hers. "Hawke. Look at me."

She does. She does without question and wonders why her chest hurts so when she feels the hot breath of his words on her cheeks.

"We have to move. There is nothing left here."

Hawke watches him silently. There is nothing left here. She closes her eyes and takes a long, slow breath. She can smell the burning bodies, feel the tight pull of her lungs in ash-filled air. There is nothing left here. She opens her eyes. He does not turn from her.

There is more than forceful concern in his gaze. There is understanding. There is the shared knowledge of families lost and pasts destroyed. There is the hollow anguish of homelessness, in its loneliest and most desperate way.

And there is more. Something that neither of them have words for. Something that makes them touch and hunger and crave. Something that keeps their bodies hot and slick with sweat when they move together in the dark of night.

And there is fear. Small and uncertain and barely-there. But fear all the same

Hawke licks her lips. She nods silently and pulls her shoulders straight. She takes one last look around the filthy house. "I want this battle done."

Fenris nods knowingly.

Hawke looks to each of her companions, steadfast and constant. "I want the Arishok's blood on my blades." She swallows and pulls a deep breath through her nose, soot-filled and heavy with rage. She takes purposeful steps to the door and makes her way outside, where Kirkwall burns under Qunari hands.

It is only minutes before they make their way to Hightown. Hawke looks to the sky and can sense the coming of dawn. It has been a long and blood-filled night. She wants it over. She wants the sun to peek over the horizon in a bright and burning sweep of light. She wants to feel the warmth of something other than fire. She wants to know that she will stand victorious by the break of day.

As they enter the nearest Hightown courtyard, the group spots a Qunari dragging the frightened, protesting body of a woman. Hawke growls and rushes toward the Qunari without a moment's pause. The sten nearby catches sight of her charge and calls his warriors to arms. They are surrounded in moments. Hawke smiles, her teeth glinting menacingly in the lantern light, and she revels in the roar that leaves her enemy's throat as she sinks a swift dagger into his gut. Twisting away, she pulls the blade across the sten's stomach and whips around to parry the swing of another Qunari's incoming blade. Her arms nearly buckle with the strength of his blow, her body weak and worn and trembling from the night's many battles. But the throb in her muscles is welcomed, the rawness of her bones, the rough and blistered skin of her palms, the sweat drenching her skin beneath her leather armor, all of it fills her with a thrill, her skin electrified every time her blades whisk through the air.

She lashes out with one dagger to slash the Qunari's sword arm and he howls in pain, bringing his other fist up to swing at her. She ducks low and turns, slicing him across the side and then once more behind his neck as she dances away from him, blood wet and warm and splashed across her form. This is what she lives for. This is what settles that unknowable need nestled in her chest. This is what feels right with every slash and twist of blade. Every splatter of blood. Every last breath and pleading look of her opponents. The battle sings to her. And she sings back in the only way she knows. Her blades are blood-soaked in moments. Her body swift and graceful and fluid as it slings death. Her hands sure and practiced, her fingers clenching her daggers tightly. Nothing has ever felt so right in her hands.

And then she is blasted from behind with a forceful explosion of energy. Her daggers fly from her hands as she is thrown into the stone of the courtyard. She tumbles to a halt, and the lingering magic is hazy and tingling in her mind. She feels violated. Her cheek is bloody and searing painfully as she lifts her head to glance around blearily. Her bones ache from the throw, her body trembling and sore. She tries to pull a breath in and coughs into the dirt below her. Her groan fills the air around her and she blinks away the slow-inking blackness. Beside her, Fenris is rolling onto his side, his own pain-filled groan catching her attention and she looks to him. He braces his hands in the dirt just as the Qunari saarebas steps into their view.

Somewhere she knows that Merrill and Varric are lying prone and vulnerable behind her. Somewhere she knows her daggers lay uselessly out of her reach. She looks up into the eyes of the saarebas, and there is only darkness and the hollow promise of oblivion. She thinks she sees the glint of pain, or maybe fury, or maybe both. But it is momentary, and she is then looking to his hands as they burst into bright glowing flames of energy. She has barely the strength to raise herself up before he is reaching a burning hand toward her.

It has been such a long night. And such a long fight. And she thinks maybe it will be good to end this way. She almost wishes for it.

She feels the warm splash of blood across her face before she recognizes the glint of steel piercing the saarebas's chest. And then the magic blinks out from the Qunari mage's hands, the blade pulls quickly from his chest and his head is sliced clean from his shoulders. The body slumps to the ground and Meredith stands confidently behind, just in view.

She offers a hand to Hawke. It is only a beat before the rogue takes the Knight Commander's hand and lifts herself up. She looks to the headless Qunari body beside her, then to her slowing standing friends.

She and Meredith trade words that bleed together in the still lingering haze of enchantment in her mind. She tries to shake the magic from her head but it keeps its hold. Soon, Meredith is walking away and Hawke is still standing blearily in the square. She blinks, and pulls in sharp, angered breaths.

"Hawke?"

Fenris's voice is deep beside her and she turns to him.

She is suddenly in Lothering. She feels the soft, waving wheat bend beneath her touch as she stands in a sun-soaked field. The dirt is warm as she digs her toes into the ground. The air smells like honey and she thinks she sees Carver and her mother in the distance. Her eyes are wet suddenly, her hand reaching for her chest, gripping the leather of her tunic tightly. It is gone in an instant.

There is only Fenris before her now, his green eyes questioning and hard on hers. She blinks through the magical fog of memory, the warmth and scent and wind still playing on her mind.

And then she smells the fire. Tastes the sharp, metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Feels the light layer of ash covering her skin, the soot and blood mixing in a dark and alarming taint over her hands.

"Hawke?" He says her name once more and suddenly, she knows why she is still fighting. She knows why she will not run.

This is not Lothering. This is ash and death and filth. This is dark, luring fear and thrilling heartache. This is blood stirring and skin ablaze. Nights in sweat-slicked embraces with lyrium-lined skin. Days of ale and cards and laughter. Brawls and battles and always life in the balance. Blood and breathe and need.

A need she recognizes now.

She looks at Fenris. And she knows. She knows what she has been looking for. She knows why she fights. And she knows why she will win.

Her smile is slow and promising. "We have an Arishok to kill."

The sun starts its slow crawl over the rooftops. Embers blink in and out in dazzling, flickering light through the smoke. And Hawke turns to face the Keep, ready and righteous and already knowing victory. Kirkwall is burning and bloody when Hawke finds her home.


End file.
